


war paint

by agentcalliope



Series: all you have is your fire (and the place you need to reach) [3]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, obligatory sokka finds out about zukos scar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentcalliope/pseuds/agentcalliope
Summary: When Sokka was twelve, he painted his face and tried to follow his father into war. His father left him behind.When Zuko was thirteen, his father challenged him to a duel and he begged for mercy. His father sent him away.(Sokka and Zuko talk about fathers and war paint.)
Relationships: Sokka & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: all you have is your fire (and the place you need to reach) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808362
Comments: 111
Kudos: 1269





	war paint

It is meant for war.

Smooth and _cold_ , black, white, and gray. To frighten the enemy, and give courage to the warrior. Help the men of his tribe disguise themselves in the icy polar landscape— spear in one hand and boomerang in the other, waiting for a chance to strike.

It is an honor to wear the face of the wolf.

It is a given that underneath the paint is the face of a man.

Once they leave the North Pole, just him, Katara and Aang, it becomes useless. The logic of it all settled in a dark pit of his stomach, a bitter taste in his mouth. Among the brown earth and red fire, there was no white snow. There were no wolves to resemble, to become. No time for the battle preparations he so dutifully studied and observed— the ritual of praying to Tui and La on his knees, dipping his hands into his paint, and drawing it across his face.

It is meant for war, and now, the war is over.

It’s been a few months, since the sky turned red and the world below burned before him. When he gripped Toph’s hand, felt it slip, and thought _this is it this is the end_. It’s only been a few months, but he still keeps his paint in a chest and carries it wherever he goes. It’s hard to let go of such things. Sometimes he’ll take it out, sit on the floor and run his fingers over the jars. Twist the lids open and stare at the black and the white and the gray inside. Most of the time, he leaves them sealed shut. _There is peace_ , he thinks. _The war is over._ _You will never have to wear this again._

He never forgets where he leaves it, hidden in his chest made of bone. 

***

It had been such a long day, and he’d missed his bed so, so much. They had spent the morning and most of the afternoon flying from Capital City’s royal palace to Ba Sing Se’s royal palace. The evening, and much of the late night, had been occupied by conversing with the Earth King and his generals. Okay, maybe _conversing_ isn’t the right word. Arguing? Yeah, that’s more like it. The war might have ended, (and the red dissipated from the sky, and the world ceased to burn) but it never feels like it has. The issues of the colonies and reparations and healthcare and— and— there’s too much. Stop it. Sleep now, worry later. 

Sokka rubs his eyes and sighs, dragging himself towards his bedside, blowing out the candles along the way. Takes out his wolftail and as he drops the tie onto the vanity, hears it completely miss and hit the ground with a muffled _thump._ He groans, and contemplates whether or not he should pick it up. Eh. Just do it in the morning. Sokka sits on the bed and shrugs off his boots, not even bothering to change into sleeping clothes before he covers himself in the blankets, and nestles further into the sheets. He closes his eyes, and lets the day’s problems slip away.

The door creaks open.

“Whatever you want, I don’t care,” Sokka mumbles. “ _Who_ ever you are, I also don’t care. Leave now.”

A whisper, soft and crackling. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know you would be asleep already.”

Sokka immediately sits up, and peers out into the hallway to see Zuko’s dark silhouette. “I wasn’t sleeping,” It’s not a total lie, anyway— Sokka really wasn’t. He’s actually quite surprised to find that he’s not tired anymore, either. “Is everything okay, buddy?”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” Zuko slowly begins to close the door. “It can wait. Goodnight.” Sokka shuffles out of bed and quickly crosses the room. He reaches out for Zuko, and when he places a hand on his arm, it trembles under his touch. He tries not to think about that, and what it means. “No, what’s up?” Sokka insists, pulling Zuko into the room. “You okay?”

Zuko shifts, eyes on the floor, not meeting his gaze. Lips drawn in a thin line, hands balled into fists.

 _Ah_ , Sokka thinks, and remembers his paint in his chest, locked in the vanity near his bed. _They are meant for war._

(Which _they_ he means, well—that’s easy enough to figure out)

He refuses to let Zuko light the candles, and when Zuko argues with him, Sokka finds that he doesn’t have a particular reason to give why he wants to do it. He just wants to. Which means telling Zuko to sit down already, and ignoring both Zuko’s insistence of how easy it is to just _firebend_ the candles and also his feeble murmur of apologies for barging so late at night. Sokka waves him off, and just manages to stifle a yelp when he burns the tip of his finger with a match and turns around to blow on it. But once the room is flickering with light, they sit on the floor against the bed, and settle into a silence that sits uncomfortably between them.

Sokka clears his throat. “So, what’s up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I… get you anything?”

Zuko shakes his head and sighs. “No. Unless you have all the answers to how the Fire Nation can make reparations, and separate financially from the war,” He shuts his eyes and brings his hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Or what to do about the colonies. Oh, and about—”

“Yeah, yeah. Unfortunately I’m all out of those,” Sokka cuts him off. “I was thinking more like, the Cactus Moonshine I bought the other day.”

Zuko turns and narrows golden eyes. “Cactus Moonshine? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Uh,” Sokka blinks. “I mean, I was just thinking about it. Doesn’t mean I actually have it. I don’t _actually_ have it, of course. Ha. Ha.” 

Hey, it manages to make Zuko grin a little, and you know what, Sokka’ll take it. He loves Zuko’s smile, and loves it more when he’s the one that puts it there.

Then Zuko does what Zuko does best, and immediately brings his smirk back into a scowl. “I don’t know. What I’m doing here, I mean.” He pauses, and turns to look at the blank wall across from them. “Well, I know I want to be with you right now. But I don’t know if I want to talk or just sit here.”

“Well, I’m touched.” And he really is. Sokka’s not very good at emotional stuff— that’s more of Katara’s thing. It always has been. But Zuko came to _him_ for a reason, even if Zuko doesn’t quite know the reason yet. Sokka hopes it's just enough, if he’s just there for his friend.

( _she’s slipping through his fingers this is it this is the end he’s failed no they’re okay they’ve survived the war is over the war is over the war_ )

He hesitates, and then pulls himself up off the ground. “I want to show you something,” he says, and opens the drawer in his vanity. Gets on his knees and reaches in to take out his chest, then turns around to face Zuko.

Zuko shifts closer, and kneels across from Sokka as he opens the chest, and reveals the jars inside. He takes one, twists it open, and tilts it so Zuko can catch a glimpse inside. 

“Kyoshi paint?”

“No. Mine.”

“I didn’t know you wore paint.”

“Yes you do. You just have to remember.” Sokka hands Zuko the gray jar and reaches down to pull out another.

“Really?”

“Yeah, the first time we met. You know, when you attacked my village? Kidnapped Aang?”

“Oh. Right. Good times.”

Sokka wants to laugh, so achingly wants to _laugh._ And maybe then Zuko’ll laugh, and they’ll both be rolling on the ground clutching their sides in stitches. Maybe, the paint will spill all over the floor and it won’t matter, really, because Sokka doesn’t need it anymore. And, maybe then, Sokka won’t need to keep his chest so locked, so close.

The war is over, and Sokka doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t laugh because Zuko came here for a reason, and he still has his paint, and doesn’t think he’s ready to let it go.

“It’s war paint. Meant to give us a wolf’s strength and courage. But wolves need to be with their packs, and I…” Sokka swallows, glances at the jar in his hands and at the white calm inside. “When I was twelve, I painted my face and tried to get my father to take me with him. He left me behind. I get it, now. I really do. He was just trying to protect me. War is hard to wash away. But, war is all I’ve ever known. He did it for nothing.”

A pause. “That must’ve been hard.”

Sokka dips a finger in the white, and swirls it around, and thinks it looks like ice. “It was.”

“It _is_.” Zuko corrects.

“Yeah.” Sokka replies.

“I think, especially because you understood— _understand_ — that your father was just trying to keep you out of the war. Because he loved you.”

“Because he loved both of us, Katara and I.”

“Yes.”

Sokka sighs and lifts his finger coated with the paint and peers at it, as if it has a secret it could share. He would love to hear it, whatever it is. “Yeah.” He thinks carefully about what he wants to say next.

“You’re the Firelord, now. That’s a lot of responsibility, a lot to have on your shoulders,” he finally says, keeping his gaze on the white. “At least this paint washes off. At least I have the choice of wearing it, or keeping it locked away. ”

“Yes, that’s true. But I don’t think any of us has that kind of choice, Sokka. Like you said, war is all we’ve ever known. My war paint might be permanently on my face, and yours may be in these jars, but we both still have to keep it. The war might be over, but the damage is going to take a lot longer to reverse. And—” Zuko’s voice hitches. “And I’m supposed to lead my nation, and bring balance to a world that hasn’t seen it for a very, very long time.” Zuko reaches into his jar with his hand and lets the gray spill across his palm, studying it closely. “I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know if it’s good enough.”

“You don’t know if _you’re_ good enough.” Sokka corrects.

“Yeah.”

Sokka sets down his jar back into the chest, and gently takes Zuko’s as well. He dips two fingers into the grey paint, and leans forward, silently praying to Tui and La, just as he’s always done, before.

“May I?” He asks.

Zuko nods, and closes his eyes.

It is smooth, and _cold_. When Sokka draws the gray across Zuko’s forehead, Zuko stiffens a little, obviously not expecting the iciness of the paint. Sokka continues across his nose, his upper lip. Once that’s done, Sokka hesitates only slightly, peering at Zuko, before deciding that he’s going to give Zuko the full face, and not just half.

The dead skin is rough under his fingers, but soon the angry red fades into soft grey, and soon it's only a shadow hidden beneath. Zuko doesn’t react to the paint, when Sokka’s painting this side of his face.

“When I was thirteen, my father challenged me to a duel.” Zuko whispers. “I had spoken out of turn at a war meeting, and disrespected him.”

Sokka switches to the white, bringing it to Zuko’s lower jaw, his brow. And he listens.

“I refused to fight, and I begged for his forgiveness, his mercy. Instead, he gave me this. And then, after that, he banished me.”

Sokka reaches for the black, and realizes that his fingers are trembling.

“Your father left you behind,” Zuko continues, his voice small and quiet. “Because he loves you. I don’t know what that’s like.” 

Sokka runs the black down the center of Zuko’s forehead, and then carefully rims his eyes. Finally, the two dashes on the sides of his chin, and then Sokka sets down the black. He doesn’t speak, but instead balls his hands into fists, and imagines what it would be like to draw them across Ozai’s face. He would like to do that, very much.

Zuko opens his eyes, his golden eyes—and Sokka’s not surprised at all to see that Zuko resembles a wolf very, very much. 

“I don’t want it to seem that I had it worse than you,” Zuko says. “I don’t mean that at all. I just… wanted to tell you.”

Sokka unclenches his fists and exhales, shaking his head. “I didn’t think that at all.” Pauses, just for a moment. “That must have been hard.”

“It was.”

“It _is_.” Sokka corrects.

“Yes.” Zuko replies.

Sokka pulls him up off the ground, takes him over to the mirror, and stands besides him. Zuko reaches up a hand and touches the shadow of his scar, blinking at his reflection. The paint has dried, and flickers in the light. When he pulls away, the paint stays untouched on his face.

“I look… different.”

It is an honor: to wear the face of the wolf. 

It is a given: underneath the paint is the face of a man.

“You look like a wolf,” Sokka says, and drapes his arm across Zuko’s shoulder. “And we wolves run in packs. Whatever happens next, we’ll be together, and that’s what matters.”

That’s what matters. 

* * *

Beautiful [fanart](https://joyousawakening.tumblr.com/post/629306245019566080/zuko-in-water-tribe-war-paint-a-collage-inspired) of Zuko in Southern Water Tribe war paint by joyousawakening

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the longer wait, this one was harder to write. Thank you to Em, Luka, Alex and Kim for betaing. And thank you again, Reader :)


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